Both Matter
by Poli Almasy
Summary: In which Sabina Trevelyan and Cullen Rutherford attempt to be responsible adults and fail pretty spectacularly.
1. Chapter 1

When she dreams, buried in the folds of the Fade, she is a mage. When she wakes, cold and alone in the Inquisitor's (she still has trouble connecting herself to the Inquisitor, it will take time) bed, the magic abandons her.

Sabina pulls on her robe over her thin nightshirt. Growing up in the Marches has made her tolerance for the cold admirable. Her feet pad against the stone floor as she makes her way to the balcony, swinging open the doors and stepping into the night.

That has always been her childhood dream as well, that she could weave magic, little bursts of electricity from her fingertips. When she was quite young, maybe six or so, she had run to her mother exclaiming she was a mage indeed and miming the gestures she had made in the Fade, but no magic came flowing out. Her dark hair tied up in curly ringlets, she screamed and cried that she had magic, she was sure of it. While her mother sighed with relief she cried herself out until she was an exhausted heap on the floor. With magic being such a curse, she never could figure out why she was so upset.

Now with magic grafted on her, if not in her, Sabina thinks the whole thing bitterly awful.

But alone, in the cold air of Skyhold, she mimes the motion of electricity again. Nothing comes. She sighs and returns to bed, chasing impossible, unwanted dreams.

There are other impossible dreams that Sabina Trevelyan chases in her waking hours. Ones that involve the Inquisition's Commander.

Cautious, measured, professional in his speech. Always relying on decorum and order. Before she took the title of Inquisitor, he always insisted on affixing "Lady" to her name, though she hates the sound of it. From his lips it sounds all the more unpalatable.

She knows why she hates it so. Years spent sneaking about, pretending to be anyone who wasn't a nobleman's daughter. Lying about her parents, her name, her age, in taverns she never should have been in. Rolling around in rented or stolen beds with men and women who wouldn't recognize her in another context, even if they were employed in the service of her very own household. Cullen speaks with the same commoner's voice, an accent without interruption from locution tutoring. That simple thrill of the discouraged, if not the forbidden rising up inside her. He speaks like those whom she had often taken advantage, stolen hours, evenings, in the service of pretty lies. But that is not the way she could snare him. Unlike Ostwick, she cannot not live between shadows here, the shadow of her father's position and the cloud she precipitated herself as cover.

She wants, and where before she had wanted, she could always likewise have. But having Cullen isn't an option.

And that is because of the other Cullen. The one who speaks in jumbled heaps of phrases between little, strangled sounds that he cannot keep back. Whose face flushes under three or four days of stubble growth and averts his eyes when she chooses to remove bits of blood-caked armor at the War Table. That Cullen is neither the Commander of the Inquisition's Forces (a title that cannot help her in her guilt) nor an idle distraction. The desire he feels radiates off of him in those moments, but it is not one she is accustomed to handling. Not one to be deflected with clever turns of phrase and sex.

He is too obvious, too syrupy sweet she sometimes feels like she might grow soft from drinking it in.

Even if she knows better, that he should be off limits, she wants. She is used to having. Can't stay away.

At Skyhold he spends less time personally overseeing the new recruits, delegating much of training to trusted veterans. Instead of finding him with his men, he spends long hours confined to his office, organizing routes and schedules hunching over his desk. He doesn't seem the man for it. Then again, he had been a man of some importance in Kirkwall as well. His name had been passed around at parties in the Marches after the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry.

"Anything I should know, Commander?"

He straightens his posture at the sound of Sabina's voice, like a good child thinking he was caught out. But his desk is filled with requisition requests, itineraries, all things directly in service to his work.

"Not at present, Inquisitor." He clasps his hands behind his back and stands at attention. Only the shift of his feet gave away he is nervous at all. Maybe a twitch of a hand against the edge of his desk. Yes, holding on as if he is afraid of falling.

"I was thinking about sparring? Care to join me?" Wicked thing really, to tempt herself in such a way, in a way she knows he could be tempted too. Just enough adherence to decorum to get him going. Not such a strange request.

"Should you take off your clothes? Change, I mean."

He turns such a perfect shade of pink, down the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks. Just by the side of each nostril he is always pink, the cold air certainly does that, chapping away his skin. She is already accustomed to cold, if not yet the wind.

"Mm, no. It's fine," she waves off his concern. "If you can hit me, it's already too late."

"Is that a derision of my skill?"

"Not at all." Sabina takes the hilt of his sword right out of his hands, laying the flat of the blade against her shoulder and marching out of the room, expecting Cullen to follow. "I may not be as...squishy as a mage, but it's still not my role to be the one hit."

"Squishy is not a word I'd use to describe you, Inquisitor." Cullen almost sounds as if he is enjoying himself as they make their way down from the battlements.

"With those cooks Josie found for us, I will be before long!" She laughs because she knows he will laugh too, if only because it ia polite. But not only because it is polite.

"I'd like to see that...I mean."

Sabina quickens her pace so Cullen falls behind, left to stew in his own embarrassment. She does want to check out if he has transitioned from pink to red, but there would be time.

"Here." Once they reach the training dummies, Sabina tosses Cullen his sword, careful to aim the handle towards his outstretched hand.

"And if I'm not hitting you, what is it I'm supposed to be doing?"

"Trying?" She kicks off her shoes, letting them fly until they hit the nearby tree.

"I don't see your daggers? What are you doing?"

She shrugs her shoulders and loosens the buttons to her tunic, letting the upper flap fall open. "Dancing. And just because you cannot see my weapon, does not mean I'm unarmed. Swing." The last word is a command, if a breathy one.

The next several minutes consist of Cullen half-heartedly trying to strike her and Sabina's bored movements between attempted strikes. She should have known that he would not try very hard, particularly when she wears no armor.

"I will never become better if you do not challenge me, Ser Cullen. You know that as well as anyone."

"Yes, but I am unaccustomed to training against dual wielders. Our forces rely on archers for stealth attacks." Even though his exertion is minimal, the light activity and cold air move the blush from his cheeks all the way up to his ears.

"Right now I'm not wielding anything. Besides, not very much like dancing if I hide in the trees and pick you off at a distance. This is fairer. Now, try. Don't you want to impress me?" She bites the very tip of her tongue.

"I apologize if you find me inadequate. Perhaps Cassandra would be a better choice? She is more familiar with your fighting style than I."

"Maybe I want you to get familiar?" With a twirl around his side, she grabs up his sword and brings it round her back, out of his reach. As he steps towards her, she throws down a pinch of powder from her pocket and vanishes from sight. Only enough to move round to his back, pressing the pommel into the small of his back. "And before you argued that I was not armed. Now I clearly am."

"I am beginning to wonder if you are ever unarmed."

Cullen turns and Sabina lets the sword drop to the ground, banging against his feet. She produces one of her smaller knives from her hip, proving just how armed she always has been.

"Now you don't have to wonder." She holds the knife just millimeters from his throat. Too heavy a swallow and his adam's apple would bob against it. She isn't sure if she wants that or not. Not a thing he would have wanted, she suspects.

If anything he wants a nice girl, maybe one who flushes like he does between the sheets. Perhaps one of the Inquisition's mages, acting out some fantasy he never before dared to indulge at the Circle because it would have been so very against the rules.

And, if anything, she should leave him well alone because she knows better and he, clearly, doesn't. It is plain enough in his eyes, even with her knife at his throat, that he is already in too deep when she has only ever wanted to dip her toes. She withdraws the knife from his neck and instead cuts away the ribbon holding her curls atop her head, letting her hair fall down in dark waves to her shoulders. That one gesture makes his eyes widen more than the knife at his throat ever could.

"I am very well armed. At all times, Commander Cullen."

His eyes shift from hers to her Anchored hand and somehow that makes her less certain that anything at all had happened between them. Maybe she is still an illusion of her own making.


	2. Chapter 2

The palm of his hand scorches the back of her neck, unfocused fire licking through his blood.

Little by little the myth of magic breaks down. Mage/Not-mage itself a lie. Sabina saw this first hand, had it grafted to her off-hand. Quite inconvenient really for a rogue who needed both to fight, dance, win.

Cullen's hands are somewhat softer than she had expected. Last time he had her like this, in his grip, he wore gauntlets. Symbolic, really, for a Commander who spent most of his time inside the walls of Skyhold.

On the battlements he had held her neck, placed his other hand on the curve of her hip, and kissed. It had been painfully distant from Sabina's past experience, to kiss sober, to kiss with clothes on, to kiss and stop and not tumble directly into bed. And that distance forced a defensive maneuver, disappear in a cloud of figurative smoke and leave him guessing.

Cullen apologized then and she laughed in his face. Called him a silly boy and grabbed him by the collar, her hands buried in waves of fur. She wasn't actually sure which one of them was older? Had never occurred to her to ask. Only he looked older than his lips felt in their initial hesitancy.

They hadn't spoke of it again. Exchanged no promises. Sabina is a liar and a cheat, that is for certain. But he is certainly discrete and far too shy to push the matter. A momentary indiscretion that she wants to repeat, but wouldn't. Only she does.

Here she is, her back against the wall in Cullen's bedchamber. Agents still passing through his office below, going about their duties for the Inquisition. His fingers nearly halfway around her neck. His other hand at her breast, thumb sliding over still-hidden flesh. This time he seems to know better than to kiss her, only to hold and appraise. Holds her with his hands and amber eyes. Given the chance, she'll still destroy him.

"Please, Maker, tell me if you want this," his head drops, breaking apart their eyes. Shattering the moment Sabina could have understood of unattached passions and poor decision making.

His hand leaves her breast, sliding down her side, across her abdomen. She's yet to speak but still his hands move, clouding her judgment. No, that isn't right. Her judgement still knows it is cruel. She is no longer allowed to be cruel.

"I'm not the woman you think I am." She should release him, but her hands will not move from his arms, clenching and unclenching just above his elbows.

"You have always given yourself too little credit."

His fingers linger at the hem of her tunic. His desires are clear enough, always have been. Her mistake really, for not better hiding her own.

There has been some token effort to avoid this very situation. Sabina had gone to Leliana, asked her to find someone to provide comfort. Neither woman batted an eye at discussing the particular request. It had been Leliana, afterall, tasked with cleaning up some of the Inquisitor's messier relations when one or two began to recognize her by description. They'd kept it all out of earshot of Josephine, who was a touch more conservative.

The man the Spymaster sent to the Inquisitor's bed had been adequate enough. Tall, broad, blond.

But not Cullen. And that had been a terrible mistake in the end. Sabina can not longer claim it is merely physical need, frustration, fetish.

"No, but I give 'the Maker' no credit at all. It is others who interpret that as self-deprecation."

Cullen laughs, though Sabina knows well enough he does not find her atheism funny in the least. No one ever does. Maybe Sera.

"That-that was not a 'no,' then?" The vulnerability in his voice does not go unnoticed.

Her hands move from his arms to the center of his chest, pushing him backwards, towards the bed. Small steps are needed to lay out her intentions. Sure enough, he will be scared by that alone. Perhaps the truth will be a better deterrent than lies can ever be.

"When I was sixteen," she begins, "I laid with the Templar who came to take my little sister away." The backs of Cullen's knees hit the mattress and Sabina takes care to press him down before climbing atop him. It is cumbersome and they are still clothed. The sides of his armor bite through the fabric of her breeches.

"It was his first assignment. I think he was afraid, even though my family had arranged for the escort to the Circle. He was easily tempted into an unused bedroom, maybe because I was a noble and he was no one, he didn't know any better."

Cullen's breathing is heavy beneath her, his chest rising and falling, quickening.

"I believe he was thrown out of the Order, when they found us with my skirts pulled up and his head between my was a lot of yelling. If he couldn't resist a wisp of an innocent girl, how would he ever resist a thing as deadly powerful as a mage? And my parents called for his execution, for defiling their property," Sabina snears. "He tried to reason with them. But who would believe him over me? I cried my eyes out to avoid suspicion."

"You were young, and scared."

"I was nothing of the sort."

"You were still young."

Sabina continues, wanting to drive Cullen away rather than draw out his sympathy. "After that, I did not bring my conquests home. I learned discretion and a seduction. How to get what I wished and vanish in the morning. No longer did I need to use my nobility to my advantage. Clever words brought pretty faces enough into strange beds."

Below her, Cullen's features remain calm, steady. The barest hint of his pink tongue visible between his teeth, literally biting it.

"I'd pick them up in taverns, stables, along the road. Anywhere away from my parents' eyes and ears. Take them somewhere quiet enough, private, enough. Fuck them. Leave them. It was fun for me. I think it was fun for them too. That's all it ever was. Fifteen years of fun and disappearing acts."

His hands grip her wrists, not as a restraint, but as if she would slip through his fingers.

"So, Commander, I'm not the woman you think I am. Not the woman you would have ever dreamt of, that much is for sure."

"You give me so little credit. Inquisitor." The use of titles seems particularly obscene with his erection still pressing against her upper thigh. "If you think your past would have any bearing on how I...feel for you now."

"Believe me, I would bed you in a moment. I have wanted to, quite desperately. Dreamt about riding you at your desk. Of being taken against the war table. Feeling your cock inside me. Having you here in your quarters, my scent clinging to your sheets and your skin."

Groans so sweet, even if there is to be nothing more than their mutual frustration.

"I have imagined all of it," she hissed. "And it will only ever be in my imagination. We cannot jeopardize the Inquisition."

Cullen shifts his hips, up against her and she nearly abandons reason. To have him prone below her, writhing and gasping for air. Fighting her. Curling against her. Perhaps it would be easier to believe in the Maker. To believe she is being divinely punished by the mark on her hand and the man beneath her.

"Of course, Inquisitor. I will not speak of it again. Ever." Resignation clearly rendered. "But know this. I cannot help but be devoted to you. That line was crossed some time ago."  
>"I know, Cullen." Dipping her head down she kisses each of his flushed cheeks. The right. The left. Then his lips. Sweet and yielding. Bitter things in their endless process of denial. "I thought my truth would do a better job of breaking you than my lies. It seems I am mistaken."<p>

"Quite."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to The Jolly Hat for reviewing! It really means a lot to me that you took the time to leave a comment. I know this isn't a typical Inquisitor, in that she's not particularly good, or nice, but I hope it adds variety to the available fanfic library. (I'm probably the only person who selects the 'bottom' dialogue choice and thinks "I wish that were more abrasive.")

ANYWAY. This does switch to Cullen's pov, and he's a bit...nicer/more romantic.

She has yet to move. She has yet to move and her weight was not as insignificant as he had thought, her thighs squeezing at his hips and lower rib cage, the warmth of her core against his groin. He can feel it even through layers of clothing and coats. He can feel her heart beat in her chest as her dark eyes bore into his.

Sabina wants him to run, to give her up. And she's right, that the Inquisition must come first, and so he should. He should give her up. But right now she's the one atop him in his bedchamber and, what? He is supposed to throw her to the ground? No. But perhaps it is now his place to tell her to leave. That is clear enough, she wants to be told to go. She wants him to be complicit in her staying.

Her lips press against both of his cheeks, then his lips. They're forceful, demanding. She's using her lips to prove a point. Speaking was unable to deliver, so it's obvious she's attempting an alternate tactic. He's seen her tactics in action, they're good. Now he's felt them, also good.

"I thought my truth would do a better job of breaking you than my lies. It seems I am mistaken."

"Quite," he doesn't know exactly where the voice comes from, though it's his, for certain. It's more of a challenge to her than he expected. But it's all because she has been challenging him, at every turn.

Because she's smart, he knows she's right, that she's not the woman he would have imagined. Not the woman he would imagine for Inquisitor nor the one in his bed. But right now she's both and he can barely breathe about it. His nostrils are full of the perfume she wears at Skyhold. She does not wear it in the field. Other than that, he only knows he has never encountered the scent before.

"Tell me to leave, Commander." Her hair comes loose, falling in waves around their faces as she peers down at him.

With her eyes nearly black in the dimness of his chamber, he can't read her. Suddenly he feels as if he's betraying too much of himself. Sabina is trained in deception while he is trained in rules and clarity. His life was black and white for so very long. Until he left the Order, really.

She is not the Inquisitor any of them expected, but perhaps that is because she is better than they could have dreamed. How do the others put it? Who they needed when they needed her.

"No," he pushes back with his words while curling his hands on her hips, squeezing the flesh there. Most of her softness has fallen away in the time since the Breach opened. She was muscular from the first moment he saw her, but a layer of indulgence has disappeared.

Her lips curl just at the corners and she repeats herself. "Tell me to leave, Commander." From the way her tone drops, he knows it's his last chance. If he does not now tell her to go, they've caught one another. He is meant to be disciplined, in control. But where has that gotten him?

Very briefly, he thinks of mages. Of Neria, shy and frail and quiet, failing her Harrowing. In need of protection where he could offer only pity in the end. Of Bethany, as her sister led her away, ash clinging in her dark hair like snowflakes. He had not really known until she was gone. Their eyes looked at him differently in the twinned moments of his failure.

He would not fail again. He would not wait again.

"No."

With his hands already at her hips, it is easy enough to flip her onto her back, reversing their positions. Her dark hair spreads like a halo behind her head. It contrasts with the white sheets. And still she smiles.

"We're making a mistake," she teases.

"No, we're not," his hands shake and her eyes fix on them.

There are too many buckles and straps to his remaining clothing and she does not help him disrobe. Instead, she opens the flap to her tunic and lets it fall off her shoulders, exposing her breast band. Maker, her skin is beautiful, fresh scars stitch her together like patchwork and old ones fading out. He wants to touch her everywhere and she's to allow it. He forgets his trousers in the moment.

"We are, but we should make it a good one," she counters.

He's atop her and she's laughing, deep from inside her rib cage and it's pure joy. Mistake this is not. It can't be the way her curly hair feels between his fingers when he grips it down to her scalp.

Her hands pull at his shoulders, maneuvering him into place above her. When he goes to slot his legs between hers, she resists, instead kicking his knees open until she's between his. Her arms drop from his shoulders to his waist and she grinds up against him. There are still layers between them but the friction is warm and wanted all the same. Her knee keeps his legs spread around hers.

"Remember," she whispers at his temple. "I warned you about me."

"I do not care. I-"

She silences him with her lips atop his. They're full, but not soft. They've cracked from the mountain air and the days on horseback. Wind has whipped her face raw and her stay-overs in Skyhold are not enough to let her skin heal. He's seen her apply wax to her lips, but it hasn't helped.

Otherwise, she yields, her hips falling back against the mattress. Still, he's drowning in her. She licks into his mouth and presses him for more. It feels as if she has ten hands and not just the two as she works the clasp on his trousers. Dexterity at work.

He realizes he's to undress her as well, finding the laces to her band and untying them. His fingers are bigger, clumsier. The strip of fabric pulls away and he can finally feel the flesh of her body against his. Her breasts are small. Were she not regularly engaged in combat, she might not have need for the band at all. Her nipples dark, stiffening.

When she finishes with his buckles, he helps her in pulling off his trousers. Still her laughter fills the room. Certainly if a scout or messenger were passing through below, they would hear her, but the noise alone is innocent enough.

Naked, except for his small-clothes, he appreciates her one last time as she is. Before knowing her. This is what she needs from him. To not speak, to not worship, but it is difficult. He wants to tell her a thousand words on how much he admires her, how much he loves her already. But even if she were to hear it, she would not listen.

"If you don't start soon, you'll be the one on your back with your legs spread for me." She tilts her head against the pillow, appraising him as he had done to her.

Maker, if that didn't make his stomach twitch. Both arousal and trepidation. She would do it too, he is sure of it.

In the process of removing her breeches he tears them. She says it doesn't matter, they are cheap, disposable things. She hates that pair anyway. When he tosses them to the floor, her knives scatter across the boards.

"Sabina," he is unsure what to say, where to place his hands. He knows though he is to move quickly. And he is to move with confidence he does not possess.

"Cullen." Her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him against her.

He can feel the heat from her body, the slick of her skin. That perfume is in his nostrils again. But he also knows what she smells like fresh from fighting. Neither is more alluring than the other.

She holds his face in her hands and he can almost believe she cares for him as well. That it is only the Inquisition she is trying to protect. Or maybe it is him, Maker, if something were to happen to her. He would be helpless. Again.

Her fingers slide over the bridge of his nose. It's a strange, childish gesture, one he would not have expected. Somehow that breaks the spell. She is a person. A beautiful woman in his bed. Maker, he would have her.

The last of their smalls removed, he brings his hand to her core. She is wet, eager. They've taken so long already to reach this point. When he slides one finger inside her, she arches her back and whispers 'finally.' She says it over and over like a mantra.

Finally. Finally. Finally.

He works her with his fingers, first one, then two, until she slides a hand between their bodies as well. Her fingers tend to her clit while he slicks inside her. Already he feels himself failing her expectations. He doesn't even know her expectations and he's failed them.

"Let me," he offers

But she's already bucking against his hand, rubbing herself off, and breathing heavily. Her eyes are open, trained on his. He wants to look away, but he can't. For the most part, her release is quiet. Nothing more than a heavy exhale and she slacks back onto the mattress. Her fingers move from herself to his wrist, pushing his hand away.

"Sabina," he wants to apologize.

But she doesn't look disappointed, or angry, or anything like he expected. She looks happy and flushed.

"Cullen, come on now, you wanted this."

He realizes her legs are still splayed around him and she's waiting. And he's so painfully hard he's actually thankful she's come once already. He doesn't know if he can last with his cock at the rate they're proceeding. With the way she lazily runs her right hand over her chest, across her stomach.

As he spreads her folds she bites at his shoulder. Vicious little teeth scratching at his skin. She may draw blood yet. Her body accepts him easily. A little whine from her mouth boosts his confidence and he manages a few shallow thrusts.

Her hands grip at his hair, clawing at his scalp and holding his head in place above her. She will not let him look away. She will not be ashamed or let him be ashamed. This was a mistake because neither of them will be able to forget. This was not a mistake because he will not want to forget.

"More, please," she asks through gritted teeth.

Their bodies slide against one another, sweat slicked. She raises her hips to meet his thrusts, to dictate his actions more to her liking. She is not accustomed to being passive, that much is clear.

He wants her to come again, even if it is to be quietly. He wants to be responsible for her coming undone under his hands, in his bed, with his cock. Most of all he wants to be satisfactory. But she is already more than that. Far more.

It's such an unexpected thing that he doesn't realize she's coming until she clenches around him. It's with her legs, wrapping around him again pulling him deeper, and her body spasming around him. Her eyes do close this time, black eyelashes pressing against the tops of her cheeks. Her breathing sounds like his name. The anchor on her hand glows dimly green as if signaling a warning. But no catastrophe follows.

He stops thinking. He stops worrying. He thrusts into her relaxing body until he hears her laugh again, pleasured, sated. Not mocking. He knows not that because she has mocked him before.

"Oh, Cullen..."

She sounds so happy. Because of him.

He's not as quiet as she managed to be. Although the noise from the bed frame would be more than enough to alert those passing through below to the activities above. He tries to bury the sound in the pillow beside her head, letting his moan settle near her flushed face. He spills into her and his vision goes dark for a moment before he knows he must get off from on top of her. Rolling to the side, he feels wet and exposed as he slides out of her. Somehow, he's certain she doesn't feel the same.

She rolls to her side to face him. They keep their eyes open. Closing them would be the greatest transgression.

"When we're not at war," her voice is as clear as her laughter was, "we will both want something different."

He reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear. He thinks about how curly it is, and how dark, and the way her legs feel wrapped between his.

"My only want is for you."


	4. Chapter 4

Cullen is not complacent in the contours of his nightmares. He will never be. They are always too vivid, too real. Sharper and clearer now without the dull thud of lyrium to keep them fuzzy at the edges. They weave their way through him nearly every night. Nearly every night for a decade and he cannot grow used to them. Even when it is the same repeated vision, it seems new, it seems alive.

It starts with Neria. With her sweet blue eyes and soft blush. Neria who he failed. Neria who is dead. But often it starts with Neria being saved, whisked away from the Circle Tower by some hero who is not him. Perhaps she saves herself. Neria as a pale-eyed hero, with a quiet inner strength that no one could have anticipated. But that vision is a lie because he watched her die. A sword through her slim stomach as she failed her Harrowing. Even when awake, he cannot recall the demon which possessed her. As his withdrawal progresses, he remembers particulars of the event with more clarity. He doesn't want to. He's afraid one day he'll remember that he was the one to slay her.

The middle of his nightmares are filled with demons. They bang at the walls of his mind, whispering to him to give in, to yield. There are two. One looks like his sister. One looks like Neria. They both offer their hands to him, tempting him with comfort, with home. When he refuses, their faces twist and burn. Skin falling away in thick patches like melting snow. They stop assaulting his mind and turn their attentions to his body. One keeps the barest trace of Neria's face, cackling in his ear that he is useless, weak, unworthy. The demon's lips against the shell of his ear. The demon with her eyes scratches against his chest until blood wells up beneath its fingertips. Its blood tinged hands wreck him. But he does not die. He'd rather die. But he doesn't. Not-Neria spits that he is worthless. Not even the demons want him anymore. They have all the others, the good Templars who fought and obeyed. The good Templars who just fucked the pretty mages instead of adoring them. That was his mistake.

His nightmares end with Meredith. She is twisted, horrific. Laced through with jagged protrusions of the red lyrium that fueled her paranoia. Blood mages in every corner. Every apostate already a blood mage in the tattered remnants of her mind. The scowl on her face when Bethany passes her Harrowing with ease.

Cullen can only attribute Meredith's violence to madness. But she knew well enough what directives were not for his eyes, so the insanity defense does not travel far. No one was closer to the Knight-Commander than he. Perhaps her personal Tranquil, stripped of her mind for over a decade. So no, it was his responsibility.

He'd been good. He'd fought. He'd obeyed. Didn't question her orders. He'd been a good Templar and drank down his sweet lyrium. Good Templar.

Meredith impales the Champion on her blade. It cuts through her torso, clear through her convulsing body. Her mouth is open, but if she screams, it is lost in the cacophony of Kirkwall burning. But the sound of the bow dropping from her hands against the stone is quite clear. So she must not be screaming at all. Blood flows from her open mouth, down the front of her armor, to the ground to paint her bow red.

The demon, his demon, speaks to him again. It stands behind him, little hands on his shoulders nails cutting through his armor.

"It's a beautiful sight, isn't it?" It coaxes. "Think of the power you could have." Neria's voice is multiplied in his mind, layered on top of itself. It's only a nightmare, but he still averts his eyes.

"You haven't won before, demon. You will not win now."

"I have one last show for you. Try it, see if you like it. It is new."

The demon, his demon, paints the scene for him, its thin arms wrapped around his torso and its head pressed against his back, holding him in a mockery of intimacy. It shows him Sabina, because it knows. It knows he loves her, and that he cannot tell her.

She looks younger, with fewer freckles across her nose and while her skin is still dark, it is noticeably untouched by the sun. Her hair is piled on top of her head, with a few curls falling loose. She's been running, barefoot but in her dress, and her cheeks are flushed. Chasing after her little sister. The demon is showing him the day the Templars came.

The little sister holds Sabina's hand. She is fairer, her hair straighter. Perhaps six years old or so. It's clear enough that Sabina adores her. The way she looks at the little girl is unlike anything he has seen on her face. Love.

Even though the girl is much too big to be carried, Sabina picks her up anyway, twirls her around in her arms until they are both laughing. The sister kisses her nose.

An elven servant enters, tells the Mistresses Trevelyan that the Templars have arrived.

Sabina kisses the sister's nose back and tells her to hold still. There is a knife in her hand, one of the tiny ones that she wears now publically at her waist, secretly in her boot as well, and he suspects sometimes in her breast band. Sabina gives the girl the knife. She does not need to explain she is to keep it, to hide it.

And then Sabina sees him. The little sister fades away and it is just the two of them and an empty bedroom. Not-Neria's arms are still around him, but it is a demon and this is the nightmare of its design.

She smoothes down the wrinkles in her dress and keeps her eyes averted from his. It's only a game that she's playing coy. This was her plan all along, to keep her sister away from the Templars. She fails.

He's in his Templar armor, the same set he was issued when he turned eighteen and properly joined the Order. It feels heavy on his bones. But he is incredibly light when Sabina smiles. Her hands are pressed against her chest, white gloves contrasting with the dark fabric of her dress.

"Oh, Ser Cullen, I….you will have to show me what to do." Her hands move from her chest to his, pressing against his breastplate.

Only one lamp is lit in the room. The light catches her eyes and they look wet, red. She's an illusion but he wants to comfort her nonetheless. He wants to kiss at the corners of her eyes and tell her that her sister will be safe. He will keep her safe. But he is the very thing Sabina is trying to protect her sister from. And he doesn't know. He doesn't know in the waking world what became of the sister. He has never asked. Sabina has never told.

Her hands reach up to his shoulders. She presses down with unanticipated strength until Cullen is on his knees before her. His hands skim the hem of her dress and his knuckles rub against the floorboards.

This is the temptation his demon has fashioned. Sabina, not as she is now, but as she could have been in their youth. As they could have been before the sky was torn open. But that is a lie in itself. That the Templars came to the Trevelyan estate at all is proof that there was no time of innocence. Not for them, not for anyone.

He rests his hands on her hips as he rises from the floor. Even now, he does not want to let the illusion go.

"I'll run away with you, Ser Cullen," her voice echos. "We'll run away from here and I'll be your wife. I'll give you beautiful children." But it is not her voice alone. It is Sabina's and Neria's and Bethany's. All echoing together. And it's his scream at the Circle Tower and Hawke's scream at the Gallows.

Sabina's hand glows green, a sharp, toxic kind of color. She's started tipping her daggers in poison. Her hand wraps around his throat and she's pulling the Fade out through his mouth….

He wakes with a start. He has sweat through the sheets and they'll have to be changed. It's already light outside. He has overslept. Predictably, Sabina is gone. But he remembers her falling asleep in his bed, her back pressed against his chest. But she could have left at any point in the night. The pillow next to his smells like her perfume still. And it's warm.

Sitting up, he wipes the sweat from his brow and tries to still his hands from shaking. He has work to do. Drills would have begun hours ago. A first round of daily reports are probably already on his desk.

In his drawer downstairs, he can feel the lyrium singing to him.

No, it's humming from outside.

He slides out of bed and keeps the sheet wrapped around him, even though he is alone. Outside, Sabina walks along the edge of the battlements. Her hair is tied up in as tight of a bun as she can manage. She hums to herself as she walks the narrow lip of the wall. Her hands raised above her head, she extends one foot forward and then cartwheels along the beam. She does so twice more before turning back around.

She sees him watching her and looks cross. To make amends he leaves the place at the window and dresses for the day.

When he climbs downstairs Sabina is already waiting for him. She's sitting on the corner of his desk and reading his reports. The same ones would be sitting on her desk, but no one in the Inquisition expects her to read them. If the information is important enough, someone will take the time to summarize for her.

"The Champion of Kirkwall is here. Varric sent for her," she flips through pages of reports and does not look at him.

The melody in his desk drawer calls out for him. It would make everything less painful. It would ease his sweating, that heat.

"Oh? Cassandra will be...upset."

"I'll deal with that later." She places the reports back neatly in the center of his desk. Tilting her head to one side, she gestures that he should sit down. "She asked after you."

"Yes, well, we knew each other, a bit. It was difficult in Kirkwall not to know her."

Sabina doesn't look upset. Only exhausted, where only a moment ago she was humming, twirling.

"Seems that way, since apparently she's even met Corypheus before. Killed him, even. Some good that did." Her feet are shaking, expending nervous energy she's building up while sitting still. "You should go talk to her. We're heading to Crestwood tomorrow to meet this Warden friend of hers. She said she'd be in the tavern."

"At this hour? I have work to do." Cullen holds the report between his fingers, miming reading.

Sabina shrugs and hops down from his desk. Her feet make no sound against the stones. "I'm not your keeper. Do what you like."

"Wait."

She is nearly out the door before he stops her.

"What was your sister's name? The one who went to the Circle?"

Sabina does not turn. Instead she stares out the door, the light catching in her curls. "Cassia." The somber note to her voice gives him pause. He is unsure if he wants the answer to his next question.

"Where is she now?"

"When the Ostwick Circle disbanded, she went home. I assume she is still with our parents."

With no more questions, Sabina takes her leave.

In the end, Cullen does go to the tavern, though not until the early afternoon. He considers it a break for lunch. Though he is used to eating in his office, the change will be nice, even if Hawke would be there.

"Son of a mabari. I didn't think you'd show." Marian's feet are on the table and she has the bard's lute in her hands. What she's done with the bard is anyone's guess. Putting the lute aside, she gestures to one of the barkeeps to come over. Without asking, she orders for Cullen. He doesn't much pay attention to what she says.

"You know," there is ale on her breath, "I should kill you right now for what you did."

"Me?" This is already going about as well as he expected. "What about you, Hawke? How can you still protect him? After what he has done?" He tries to keep his voice low. Rumors circulate regarding the Champion and the company she keeps, but they are just that, rumors. He knows little more than that, but it is enough to cause trouble. Leliana undoubtedly knows more but is more adept at staying out of arguments.

"And I'd help him do it again, gladly."

She smiles warmly at the barmaid as she sets down Cullen's mug and meal. He leaves it untouched.

"You're selfish, Hawke. A selfish brat." He means every word.

"And you're disgusting." She slides a folded bit of paper across the table towards him. "From my sister."

He does not open it, he merely lets it sit loosely on the table. "Why?"

"You know why."

"No, why would you actually give this to me?"

Hawke picks up the lute again and plucks the strings to no tune at all. Her fingers are coarse from bowstrings. "Because I'm a sucker for her. That's why. And she's a sucker for you."

He remembers her limp on Meredith's red lyrium sword. Like a ragdoll.

He takes the note from the table and puts it, unopened, in his pocket. "Do you know what it says?"

"Of course. Now eat your meal."

Cullen eats and listens to Hawke's butchered melodies. She sings a nonsense song about country boys and small town girls in the big city. How Kirkwall had chewed them up and spit them out.


End file.
